


Hey Sailor

by sharleclair



Category: Endings Beginnings (2019), Knives Out (2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Evanstan AU, Frank dressed like Hugo Boss Seb, Frank smoking, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Quickies, Ransom Drysdale's Sweater, Ransom dressed like Fila Chris, Semi-Public Sex, stucky au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:35:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23809234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharleclair/pseuds/sharleclair
Summary: “How long did it take you to get all cleaned up?”“You don’t like it? I got dressed up for you.”“You shouldn’t have.”
Relationships: Frank/Ransom Drysdale
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	Hey Sailor

Frank’s quick to realize the real reason why rich people wear dark glasses is to hide behind them and the second he’s slipped his pair on, he’s pretty much at liberty to pick up a whiskey that burns pleasantly unlike the cheap stuff he’d go as far to compare to gasoline that he’s used to. It’s over that first sip his eyes find what he’s looking for, grateful for that glass of Macallan to cover up that smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Ransom.

It’s fleeting, most of their moments are, but all it takes is that split second when their gazes meet for Frank to realize how expressive Ransom’s eyes are. Sure they’re a shade of blue that’s rivalling the crystal water pooled around them but it’s nothing compared to that bad streak that he recognizes because it’s the same bad streak he sees when he looks in the mirror. The world could burn around them and they’d watch with indifference, maybe even take pleasure in it and who really gives a shit if they’re hated for it? Always bringing out the best and worst of each other.

Frank raises his glass, tilting his head so subtly that only Ransom could understand what it means and true enough, when he finds the quiet of the yacht's lower deck to light a cigarette and blame the sunshine for his poetic bullshit, he can tell he’s not alone.

“How long did it take you to get all cleaned up?”

“You don’t like it? I got dressed up for you.”

“You shouldn’t have.”

It’s easy to fall back into synch after that and they’re rolling against the wall in turns to slam each other up against it until one of them gives in because a kiss that tastes of expensive liquor, cheap tobacco and so distinctly the other man is too hard to resist. For Frank, there’s nothing better than the feeling of Ransom’s sweater sliding under his palms, wondering if he’ll ever get the chance to take him apart slowly but right now, he’ll settle for leaving a hickey dangerously close to the collar of his shirt. And Ransom, he’s licking up Frank’s neck with the flat of his tongue like the taste of his sunwarmed skin is worth abandoning the fancy drinks for. 

The thrill of their tryst’s always been the most addictive thing of all and it’s heightened by the falsetto laughs and click of heels coming from the boat’s upper deck. Not at all dissuaded, they fumble with their zippers, mouths crashing together to muffle their satisfied moans and Frank swears he could blow his load just from the way Ransom’s fingers wrap so perfectly around his cock, like they’ve been made to belong there all this time. It doesn’t help that he’s breathing so hard he’s panting against his mouth, like Frank’s all the oxygen he needs and his touch’s heaven sent from a god he doesn’t believe in.

Frank’s brain is reeling off poetic bullshit again, something about both their eyes glazed over submissively because it’s not about power or control but giving themselves over fully. There’s a small groan that resounds in his throat as he presses closer but there couldn’t be any less space between them if he tried, he just wants to desperately lose himself in Ransom and the way he feels and tastes and smells like the best bittersweet decision he’s ever made. 

His lungs are burning with every breath as he circles his thumb over the tip of Ransom’s cock, earning more of those shuddering sounds that have his own cock pulsing uncontrollably. There’s barely any coherence left in either of their moments, just messy jerks and uneven tugs, cockheads practically drowning in arousal that their hands are soaked. Frank doesn’t stop, fucking his fist over Ransom’s cock, pupils expanding with an unspoken plea that’s answered in a matter of seconds because they both know he’s the only one who could take him apart like this and put him back together like. 

And fuck, Ransom does it so beautifully, like a masterpiece come to life. With a breath that hitches, his face pinches up in a moan, lips parting in the perfect little o as his hips jerk, cock ribboning out his pleasure all over Frank’s t-shirt. He groans between labored breaths and through his haze, Ransom’s wringing his length from base to tip, thumb dragging the foreskin down the crown and back up again. Frank pants harshly into the open mouthed kiss they never really broke apart from in the first place, finally letting go with a choked cry and tensing all over, his t-shirt even more splattered in white when his orgasm finally subsides.

From that moment, they’re counting down each minute with every breath they pull in and push out. There’s a shade more of the real Frank when he eventually leaves, jacket undone to reveal his bare torso and dirtied shirt balled up in his fist. His dark glasses afford him protection from the judgemental eyes in his direction. Not that he could give a shit. But he grabs a bottle of Macallan for the trouble anyway.


End file.
